Potholes

Silence falls down curved roads
holding onto newborn fears
and fistfuls of last breaths.
Its boneless as it traces
jarred edges of potholes,
ripping calloused skin from flesh.
Glad for the carnage,
for the life that fell from open wounds
onto the interstate of imperfections in the asphalt.

Descending down lovers lane,
it is the razor blade driven
between two conforming bodies.

Twisted fingers grasp swollen lips.
Eyes whole. Deformed.
Fright and sound tears
at the tissues in her throat.
Muscles strain. Force it down.

It moved onto a hillside.
Laughter and mischief mingle here,
socialize like starved housewives.
Passing through the soil past femurs,
past breastplates.
Past the depthless orbit of eye sockets.

Empty like the dark park of the eye,
the sharpest corner of the room,
charred bones that still hold their shape.

Until hushed winds whisk them away.
Leaving nothing less then a memory,
no fractured silence
left to walk alone
on a muted road.